


With Or Without You

by AndyAO3



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Snarky Hawke, don't know what direction it'll go in, flirty Hawke, harmless flirting, silliness abounds, we'll work it out from here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAO3/pseuds/AndyAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders isn't sure whether or not he can trust what might lie behind that grinning facade. But he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Behind Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even gone over this to check for typos. Whipped it up in a couple of hours. LOOKS AIGHT TO ME. /posts
> 
> Yes? No? Good? Suck? Lemme know if y'all approve.

"I have made this place a sanctum of _healing_ , and _salvation._ Why do you threaten it?"

The stranger who had entered Anders' clinic - tall, armed with a sheathed broadsword, and wearing heavy scale mail - blinked and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not _threatening_ anything-- and, aren't Grey Wardens supposed to be about taint and death, not healing and salvation?"

Anders blinked back, lowering his staff and letting his half-prepared spell fizzle out. He peered at the stranger curiously. Unremarkable, messy brown hair, relatively pale skin, lanky build. Angular, harsh features, a strong jaw, thin lips, and a large, hooked nose that had been broken repeatedly... and yet. That _grin_. Crooked and self-assured, putting a gleam in the stranger's ice-blue eyes that made him look completely unlike any Grey Warden that Anders had seen.

Wardens did not grin as if the world could not touch them.

But all the same, that didn't mean that the Wardens hadn't _sent_ this mad fool after him. And even if they hadn't, the stranger had still been followed; behind him stood a pretty young woman with black hair, a dwarf with no beard, and a dark-skinned, tattooed elf that seemed to want to glare Anders to death. As such, the former Warden narrowed his eyes and frowned at the newcomer. "Did the Wardens send you to bring me back? I'm not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat."

"Your cat?" The stranger asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Anders nodded. "Mm. Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads." _And he wasn't the only one, either_ , the mage thought gloomily. The dark and narrow passages had reminded him _far_ too much of long nights spent in solitary for comfort.

That made the newcomer do a slight double-take. "You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot in the Deep Roads...?"

One of the man's companions - the girl with black hair - cleared her throat loudly and elbowed him in the side, causing him to squawk and pout at her. She glared right back. "Maps, brother," she muttered, gesturing towards Anders. The dwarf snickered. The elf just kept trying to stare a hole in Anders' head. Oh, good. Someone else who took issue with him for existing.

"Ooh, right," the tall stranger said, his grin returning after a moment. He turned back to Anders and cleared his throat. " _Ahem_. Anyway. We're planning an expedition into the Deep Roads. Any information you have could save lives." He paused a moment, then added, "...and coin."

Anders cringed. Wonderful. He had enough to worry about with Karl, _without_ having some mad treasure-hunter bothering him on top of it all. "I will die a happy man if I never have to think about the blighted Deep Roads again. You can't imagine what I've come through to get here. I'm not interested in--" Then he stopped and folded his arms, an idea coming to mind. " _Although_. A favor for a favor... Does that sound like a fair deal? You help me, I'll help you."

Though he was clearly trying to look serious, that crooked smirk was still tugging at the stranger's lips when he spoke. "Let's be more specific. I don't do anything involving children or animals."

It was hard not to smile at that, but Anders managed to fight the urge anyway, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he went into an explanation of what he was thinking of doing. Karl, the Chantry, smuggling mages out of Kirkwall. It was risky, trusting this stranger with it all. Justice rumbled disapprovingly at the thought of involving him, but Anders hushed him. They needed the help, after all. It would be even more risky doing it on their own.

Except, he might've gone a little overboard. May have gone on a bit of a tirade in the process of explaining. He wasn't sure how much of it was fueled by Justice's influence, although the sentiments were his own, at least. He realized, after the words had left his mouth, that it had been the wrong thing to say; the girl's eyes were wide, her lips pressed into a thin line and her body tense. The dwarf had raised his eyebrows, but his expression was largely neutral. The elf had gone from glaring to _seething_ , his mouth curling with a sneer.

But the tall stranger, with his battered armor and his wicked sword, just smiled. The look in his strangely bright blue eyes didn't just say he understood. It said he _agreed_. "I can't see how the Templars got it into their thick heads that treating mages like _slaves_ will prevent another Imperium," he said with a light shrug.

The elf spat something hateful and bitter, looking angry, but Anders ignored it. He was caught in the stranger's gaze, relaxing and smiling faintly in spite of himself. "That's... not usually the response I get," he admitted. "Perhaps we'll get along better than I thought."

That grin came back, and the stranger held out his hand; Anders took it hesitantly and shook it, and was surprised to find that his hand wasn't being crushed. An unusual amount of care, for a man so well armed and armored. "Jeb Hawke," he said.

"Then I welcome your aid, Jeb Hawke," Anders said, taking his hand back. Although he wasn't quite sure what to do with it once he had it back, so he ended up fidgeting a little.

Hawke shrugged. "What can I say, you've convinced me. It'll be a pleasure to work with you, Ser Warden."

_Ser_ Warden? Anders felt his cheeks heat up a little. "Erm, no need to be so formal. Anders is... fine."

Was that a _wink_? Yes, Hawke had just _winked_ at him. "Then I'll see you at the Chantry this evening, _Anders_ ," he said, with a sort of emphasis on the nickname that honestly sounded very much like flirting. Except it couldn't be flirting, could it? No one was that _open_.

Anders was still debating it as the man bowed and took his leave, his companions giving the former Warden a few stray glances as they followed. Justice wasn't quite sure what to make of this Hawke fellow either, aside from the usual mistrust of strangers.

Well, too bad. Justice would have to just _deal_ with it this time, because for what it was worth, Anders had decided that he would trust this Jeb Hawke, for good or ill. Hopefully, he wouldn't end up regretting it.

 


	2. You May Be Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it flirting, or is it just Hawke taking full advantage of having an audience for his madness? Anders isn't quite sure what to think, except that he has no complaints to speak of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having way too much fun writing this you guys. Jeb is a delightful nutterbutter.

They were drunk, the both of them. Usually Mum wouldn't let Carver drink too much, but Jeb was not about to disallow his baby brother the privelege. Carver was as much a man as any of the others at Ostagar were, particularly so for having volunteered. Sure, both of them knew it was because they wanted to draw attention onto themselves instead of Bethy for a change, but that didn't make it any less of a brave and good thing to be doing.

It was Carver's coming of age, and Jeb was pretty damn proud of what his baby brother for having gotten so far.

But enough about that; it's not what the story's about. This story is about Jeb becoming a reaver, and dwelling on the past isn't about to change that Carver died before his time, so! On with the tale, yes?

So they were drunk. Hanging about near the fire a few days before the battle proper, that one big bonfire that was occasionally used as a camp-wide dumping ground for things that were too dirty or broken to salvage. Every camp has one of those, right? Or is that just a Ferelden thing, making a nice practical fire to dump trash into that almost acts as a defiant little beacon of a band of mortals that's failed to be killed thus far and will probably _still_ remain stubbornly alive for days and days yet, keeping the fire alive because Maker knows that so long as people live, they'll have rubbish to burn--

What? It's relevant to the story. It _is!_ Don't laugh. Stoppit.

Okay. So while they were drinking, and talking about Maker knows what - is it really important what they were talking about? Fine, imagine they were talking about Mabari. Or _girls_. Or whatever you bloody well like, really, just fill in the blank - one of those Ash Warriors came up with his hound trailing along behind him all dutiful and stern. And the Ash Warrior's all stained in blood, which is pretty normal when people come back from having a go at the wilds around Ostagar, but he's also carrying this sack over his shoulder, and he's got this vial in his hand of what looks like blood. So that's interesting.

Now Carver was a bit _thick_ at times, but he wasn't _stupid_. So he noticed the Ash Warrior and leaned over to make this grabby motion at him. "Lemme see that," he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of what could either be the vial or the bag. He was pretty well pissed at that point, mind.

The Ash Warrior stopped midstep and then he turned and looked at Carver, and it was this look that said I Have No Time For Your Bullshit Today without him having to actually _say_ as much. But he came over anyway, and dropped the sack down in front of Carver for him to see, still holding the vial himself.

Carver's hand was still outstretched, and it took him a second to get that the sack wasn't going to magically appear into it, so he had to lean back further in his chair to see what was in it. Damn near leaned himself into falling over, but if Carver had _anything_ , it was balance; if he could handle a two-handed sword with any amount of finesse, then he could bloody well handle keeping a wooden chair upright.

He peered into the sack, reaching out to loosen the drawstring on it and open it a bit wider so that he could see, and blinked at it. Then he blinked some more. Took a minute for whatever was in his head to come out his mouth. "Them's... dragon scales?"

"Drake scales," the Ash Warrior corrected him. "Figured if I get these to the Quartermaster, I can get a fancy set of proper armor fashioned. Or at least a new collar for my hound."

"Those'd be worth a _fortune_ back in Denerim," Carver said. Well, he sort of slurred, but the beauty of being just as sloshed as he was is that it made him easier to understand. It takes a drunk to speak drunk.

"In a ceremonial suit of armor for the social elite? Pfah!" The Ash Warrior spat on the ground. "A waste of good scales."

That's where Jeb chimed in, as being the sensible older brother meant that he was _slightly_ more lucid than Carver was when the both of them were the same level of knackered. "Wossat then," he asked, pointing at the vial.

The Ash Warrior - no, his name doesn't matter, stop interrupting - held up the vial and gestured to it. "Blood of the beast itself. Haven't figured out what to do with it yet, but it could fetch a fair price, I wager."

Carver whistled. "I hear if y'drink that, it gives you special _powers_ , like," he said.

Jeb scoffed. "More likely it'll give you a terminal case of dead."

"Sounds like you're scared t'me," Carver crowed, gesturing accusingly at Jeb with the bottle he'd just picked up again.

That bugged the piss out of Jeb, though. He didn't normally let himself be bothered by such things, but, well, it's Carver, and Carver has always bothered him. It's _Carver_. He was a tit even when he was sober. "I'm not afraid of anythin'," Jeb replied. "Just sensible." Then he belched, which was clearly on purpose and meant to further his perfectly reasonable and logical argument.

Carver just laughed. Laughed right in his face. "I bet five silvers you won't do it 'cos you're _scared_ ," he said.

"Oi, that's it. All right." Jeb sat up a little straighter in his chair and set his bottle of brandy down so he could fish around for his coin purse, looking over at the Ash Warrior. "How much for the blood, then?"

And just so it's made clear, dragon's blood tastes slightly less gag-inducingly awful when chased with Antivan brandy.

\---

Anders was laughing. He laughed until he was clutching his side and having to wipe a tear from his eye. "Andraste's tits, Hawke," he said, once it had mostly- subsided. "You're probably the only man I know who could become a reaver on a drunken _dare_."

"It wasn't a dare, it was a bet. Though I wasn't too good at maths at the time; took me a bit to realize I came out of it five silvers _short_. Had to buy the vial off the Ash Warrior, after all." Still, Jeb was grinning. "Didn't even know that was what it was _called_ until after I sobered up."

"You're mad. You're absolutely, completely mad," Anders told him.

"A total nugshit-on-a-banana nut-buggers loony," Jeb agreed easily, without hesitation.

Had making the apostate smile been the point of Jeb's storytelling to begin with? Possibly, but even so, he doubted that Jeb would make up something that absurd for his benefit. More likely it was just the tale that came to mind when that he'd been trying to think of things that had happened that would make Anders laugh.

The effort alone probably would have made him smile, to be honest. Jeb was just that charming, and even a fruitless attempt at cheering would have probably worked to some extent. Another thing to add to the list of things he had discovered about him, along with the fact that he didn't care that Anders was pretty much an abomination, and that he didn't care that Anders was an apostate either.

Well, it wasn't that he didn't care. More that he didn't judge. Or at least it didn't _seem_ like he was judging for it. "I just... I hope I wasn't being too selfish when I told you about Justice," Anders said, letting his gaze fall upon the floor. The spirit had been mostly quiet since that little episode at the Chantry with Karl.

Jeb waved it off. "Perish the thought. Tell me anything you like." Meanwhile, he pulled out a pipe and a satchel of tobacco, settling down to have a smoke.

"Anything?" It was hard not to smile. "You might regret saying that later."

"If I do, you'll be the first to know," Jeb replied. Once the tobacco was lit, Jeb set the satchel down and took a long drag from the pipe, letting out a sigh afterwards that culminated in a puff of lazily drifting smoke.

Anders wrinkled his nose in disapproval. "You must know that smoking is a slow poison."

The warrior laughed in a rather warm, relaxed sort of way. "So Bethy tells me. Fenris always complains about the smell, though. Can't see why, when half the time he reeks like an alehouse. Bastard's got no room to talk." Then he snorted. "Varric just says that it makes the hero of the story seem less heroic."

"And what do you suppose your storytelling dwarf will make of _this?_ You coming to see me in the dead of night, braving Darktown alone just for the sake of seeing to it that..." The spirit healer blinked for a moment, pausing. "Actually, what _did_ you come down here for?"

Jeb grinned, and the pipe's presence made that grin even more crooked than usual. Possibly that was the reason for the crookedness to begin with. Or it could just be repeated head trauma and experimentation with medicinal herbs numbing one half of his face. Anders was still trying to come up with diagnoses for Hawke's various quirks.

So far, the one thing that he'd found to irrefutably be the cause of most of those quirks was that Hawke was bloody _weird_.

"To see my favorite mage? No? That's not a reason?" Jeb sighed with mock-disappointment when Anders shook his head. "Oh, _fine_ , I was checking up on you. Happy?"

He'd suspected as much. "I haven't burnt down half of Kirkwall in a Templar-induced vengeful rage _yet_ , Hawke," Anders said.

Jeb rolled his eyes and blew a bit of smoke at Anders directly. "Pfffh. Don't be a twat, Anders. I mean checking up as in making sure _you're_ all right. You know, that thing a friend does when another friend has been through something traumatic."

"So we're friends after knowing each other for a day, then." Anders turned the idea over in his mind, and snorted when a thought occurred to him (while ignoring Justice's complaint that he trusted in people too easily). "Reminds me of the Warden Commander a bit."

"Oh?" Jeb's eyebrows lifted, and he pulled his pipe from his lips briefly to level a broad smirk at the mage. "Hopefully only the bit that would make me as tall and brave and _dashing_ as the Hero of Ferelden is." At that, the tall warrior struck a brief pose, flexing his biceps in an overdramatized fashion.

Anders guffawed. " _Hah!_ A bit taller, in fact. The legendary Hero of Ferelden barely came to my chin."

"Really? I thought he was ten feet tall and shot lightning out his eyes."

"He was only about half that size, and... are you sure you didn't know Nathaniel? He said almost the same thing."

"Who? Nah, but I wouldn't put it past this Nathaniel bloke to have known Varric," Jeb stretched, and took another breath from the pipe after a bit of joint-popping and slight wincing. "And I think Varric gets his information from Bodahn, when it comes to the Warden."

"He has a name, you know," Anders scolded. But it wasn't much of a scolding.

Jeb seemed to know it wasn't much of a scolding, too. "I do know, but _the Warden_ is much easier to remember than that bloody mouthful of a name he's got. Is that an elf thing?"

"You're asking me!"

"Well, not really. More of a rhetorical question, I'd say."

"It isn't that bad of a name, anyway."

"For a Ferelden man, it sort of is. We're practical people with practical names. Usually."

"Your mum's a Kirkwaller, isn't she?"

"With the sensibilities and good taste of any fine woman of Ferelden. Other Kirkwallers could learn a lot."

Anders had to fight the urge to snicker. "How scandalous."

"Any more scandalous than literally _anything_ I do on a daily basis?" Jeb tapped his pipe against his knee to let some of the ashes out. "If we get our nobility back, it's not Leandra Hawke that will be the one tarnishing the family reputation, I assure you."

"You don't seem too broken up about that," Anders noted.

And Jeb Hawke just grinned at him, those bright eyes of his twinkling in the low light of Anders' various lanterns and candles he had around the clinic. "Better to have a reputation amongst the nobility as a scoundrel who hangs about with the wrong crowd than one amongst the people themselves as a cruel, detatched snob," he answered.

They continued to talk like that for hours, until the sun's glaring reflection off of the rather dirty Waking Sea was peeking through the Darktown gloom around them. In those precious, still hours, Anders found it much easier than he thought it might be to forget about the tranquilised-and-dead Karl for a time, and even the Templars themselves could be pushed to the back of his mind.

He felt like himself, for the first time since Amaranthine. And when Hawke finally left - declaring the intention to sleep till lunch if it were to be allowed - Anders had to bite his tongue to keep from asking him to stay.

 


End file.
